Cold Desert
by hungrychronicles
Summary: Often, those we find sanctuary in are as secure as they first appear. Villains come in all facets of life, in all concentrations of evil. He was her doctor, her confidant in a manner she never realized would be unsafe. With his aid, she was revealed a paradise she never understood could exist to her own perception. Then again, Hannibal Lecter always enjoyed testing boundaries.
1. Prolouge

"Have a seat wherever."

Her smile was gentle, her eyes a soothing cerulean that reminded one of fog hazing across the sea.

"Polite."

It sounded curt without her intent on it; the slight crinkle above her brow line betrayed her nervousness.

Though any person would be prone to nervousness after witnessing what she had. It spoke for her will that she would even bother seeing another medical practitioner, least of all one that had been equally as close. She had simply been at the wrong place at the wrong time and Alana felt immense sorrow for the strain that brought upon her.

Naturally Alana herself felt betrayed by what her mentor had done, the monster he truly was. Nothing tasted quite the same after. She doubted she could ever feel the same again regarding fine dinner; she had even lost her taste for beer. The whole ceremony of eating had became tedious and tainted. Alana never considered herself traumatized from it; she was able to justify her ignorance. When she was confronted to council the young girl she felt compelled to refuse. She had known prior of her proximity to Hannibal Lecter, which made her reluctant to sit and revisit her own remembrances.

Alana observed the woman shifting a bit in the seat across, her legs crossing and uncrossing beneath the teal fabric of her pencil skirt, which she pulled down a bit as if frightened of appearing too exposed. Also a reasonable reaction. Any victim of assault would exhibit a similar response to an uncomfortable conversation.

"It will be a long hour." The woman muttered firmly, her eyes now appearing much darker then Alana first noted.

"If you wish we can stop whenever. No obligations. You know I won't be forceful. I understand how close you were."

"Is that so?" Her lips turned upward curtly. "I'm sorry, I'm not sure where to start. I'm sure you have your own ideas, your own professional curiosities."

"Why is that?"

"I remember you. It was brief. I thought you were very lively."

"That's kind of you, but this is a very different setting. Whatever prior is irrelevant."

The woman pursed her lips. "This seems unprofessional, or perhaps...unconventional."

"How often are women found in this sort of situation? If you would be comfortable with another person to speak to..."Alana found herself hesitant to refer to herself as a counselor. Let alone psychiatrist.

"I suppose I've lost track of time, or really I didn't want to keep track of anything that linked me to the reality of what was going on."

"By reality you mean…?"

"The severity of it. I wasn't certain about my own feelings. That's what I mean by reality."

"Well, perhaps you should start at the beginning." Alana offered gently, setting her notebook aside fearing the woman might grow into an anxious animal and flee from the room.

She seemed a bit wild and unkempt with her hair sticking out as if it had not been combed for weeks. It was a pity, the woman had not always been this way. Some resolve passed her face as she again straightened, appearing confident.

"You mean when I met Hannibal Lecter."

Alana stiffened a bit at the mention of his name. It still make her cringe, thinking of what she willingly took from the man's plate before she understood what he was.

"When did you meet Hannibal Lecter?"


	2. Step Out for a While

Ileana Rosen had never found a soft spot in her heart for gallery openings. Nor for classical music. They did not resound with her nor move her to tears. However she attended each with poise and precision. It was part of the carefully polished persona she had been forced to adopt. She had no interest in much of anything, so it was best to pick the finest in life to enjoy. Her family had the capital to support any ambition she might have had. Upon realizing she had none, her father had forced her into the curator position for his gallery; Ileana did her job excellently but lacked the passion to enjoy it.

"Perhaps I should have been an actor." She muttered into the curtain as she carefully dusted the drapery.

She glanced at her reflection in the glass, noting a hair out of place and carefully slicked it back into her loose bun. The tie barely held the thick black tresses however it would have to suffice for the night. Scaling down the ladder she gave a once over, assuring all the framed works were properly straight and checking with the small ensemble band to assure they were ready.

"No flat flutes tonight, please. Open the doors."

She should have felt pride to see the room full; maybe excitement would have been more proper? And yet still, this brought her nothing. Each tittering laugh from the slightly inebriated rich folk meandering through the gallery made her stomach turn with disdain. It seemed such a fraud to pretend to like one another for the sake of appearances; or even to talk snidely about each other over some trivial thing such as a missing sequin.

Her father made a sweeping bow as he descended down from his upstairs living quarter, dressed in his typically flamboyant complimentary suit of green and red looking far more like a jester than the art collector extraordinaire he was known for. It had provided him much wealth and comfort to have the financial viability, but it also gifted him with an immense sense of cockiness. He truly enjoyed power; she had yet to fully realize how deep seated his powerful pride went. She watched idly as the patrons applauded him.

She doubted he knew any of their names.

She knew he often forgot her own, and it did not bother her.

He stopped a moment to meet her gaze with a slight shake of his head to make clear his disappointment before he continued to mingle. He seldom spent more than long enough with each to shake their hand or kiss the back of it depending on how beautiful he found the woman. He came to a rather elegant looking man, high cheekbones on showcase with his ashen hair pulled carefully back beside deep maroon eyes. He leaned close to the man, apparently speaking of some important matter. Perhaps he was intending to purchase art.

Ileana watched the men until a young couple approached her asking for more wine seemingly unaware that she did not wear the wait staff uniform. A careful smile spread her lips as she took the glasses, returning to the back-room to refill their glasses. It mattered very little so long as the couple was content.

Ferdinand Rosen loved his daughter very greatly and had what he thought to be her best interests at heart. She had never been a needy child nor had she been often doted upon. He could admit she was dutiful to a fault. When his late wife had left her to him he had been incredibly frightened, and knew that no matter what he wished her to find a place within the world that brought light to her eyes. He always loved artwork (not creating of course but collecting) and he enjoyed owning things others did not. To tuck something carefully away behind the staircase that only he could observe, that only he could fully admire, gave him glee.

This was similar also his approach to fatherhood.

Indeed he gave his dear daughter anything a girl could wish: fine clothes, playthings, jewelry, opportunity and most importantly boundless wealth. However, these things always came at a cost. He did not like the thought of his darling child being out in the world where he could not assure her success and well being. The thought alone of her being out for others to admire and to look upon frightened him. He did not trust them with his things, let alone a part of him.

It took many years for him to come to terms with her lack of feeling. She would smile and laugh and repeat "I love you Daddy" as often as any could wish for, but it seemed as if she was never there with the action. When their cat Mittens was found mangled by an eight year old Ileana she did not cry. Ferdinand watched her pick it up by the nape and carry it, with furry legs flopping against her clean white dress, to the bin on the curb. Not a single tear fell from her. She did not care for him any more than she had cared for Mittens; He wasn't certain she knew how.

Thus, when he met a distinguished psychiatrist at one of the local orchestral gala's he seized the opportunity much as he would seize a Jean-Honore Fragonard original painting. He discussed briefly that his quaint and lovely daughter Ileana had seemed depressed since the passing of her mother. She had of course been but an infant when her mother passed, however he spoke knowing that if too much was revealed no psychiatrist in their right mind would try to treat Ileana, but rather prefer her be admitted to an asylum. His pride would not allow anything of his to be locked out of his reach.

"Good evening, Doctor Lecter." Ferdinand's mood seemed pleasantly bright as gave a nod to the doctor, placing his hand on the other's shoulder briefly.

"You look well, Ferdinand." The doctor replied, the slightest twirk of lip hinting sarcasm.

Ferdinand did not notice.

"Have you given more thought to taking on a new patient?"

The doctor tilted his head a bit, finding such pressure to be inappropriate given the celebratory intent of the evening. Perhaps it was Ferdinand Rosen that lacked sensibility and thoughtfulness.

"Her age suggests that it should be her decision to seek treatment if she so desires."

Ferdinand heaved his shoulders as an expression of his displeasure.

"You have not asked her." Lecter remarked in flat observation.

"She would say no if I were to ask her….I think it would be best for her to see your interest in helping her, see that it would not do any harm to have you looking to her psychiatric needs. If you are interested, that is."

"I should think there would be none better to help her discover herself."

Ferdinand gave a careful wave across the room. Lecter could see the slight nod before she strode over, her steps careful and counted with the quality of floating indifference to the urgency her father expressed. He observed Ferdinand carefully laying his arm about her shoulder, pulling her to him which immediately caused her body to stiffen.

Something about the way the dim lights above touched her face reminded him of an okiyoe print. Sharp features glossed with raven hair against a slender silhouette, her cheekbones set high beneath her blue-hazel eyes, tinted cheeks sloping down to thin plum color lips. She was pale, but the intensity would not cause any to question her unique physicality. Her posture spoke of confidence, or perhaps disregard.

She smelled lightly of cilantro and cherry blossom. An odd combination that he did not find displeasing.

"Doctor Lecter, this is my daughter, Ileana."

The pursing of her lips did not go unnoticed as she bowed a bit, reluctant to offer her hand. How rude to not allow her to introduce herself as she saw fit. Always _his_. It might have irritated her to feel such a lack of control.

"Good evening, Doctor." Her tone was firm, giving no indication of any fluctuation.

"Please, call me Hannibal. I am not your doctor, after all." He remarked lightly with a slight wink.

"Not yet, it would seem."

Ferdinand tensed, however remained grinning broadly for the sake of appearances.

"Only if you wish it. I'm sure your father would spare no expense."

"Is money very important to you, Doctor Lecter? You are correct that cost is not a form of my father's vocabulary." She carefully nudged her father as if in humor, however she did not smile.

"My patient's wellbeing comes first, naturally."

She gave a careful nod, meeting his gaze with her own as if she were contemplating how he might possibly be of any assistance. He could smell the doubt upon her.

"Don't be rude, Ileana." Ferdinand chided, tongue clicking behind his teeth.

"I did not mean to be. Forgive me." A remorseless tone yet submissive nod followed. "When will my first appointment be?"

He did not feel the need to hide the sly smirk.


	3. Sweet Talk

"The hour is yours to spend as you wish. We may discuss anything you desire."

"What did my father ask you to _discuss_ with me?"

"He has no stake in our meeting; it is for you alone."

"Do you make a habit of lying? I'm well aware enough to understand the way I am concerns him. Did he tell you about Mittens already?"

"Perhaps the dear feline clawed you once too many times. It is not abnormal to dislike cats." He gave a casual shrug. Relating to patients was far easier if they did not fear their therapist's judgment.

She raised one eyebrow as if she was skeptical. "Just a cat. I felt no dislike for him."

"Do you think yourself incapable of bonds with animals?"

"Perhaps. Indifference is not indicative of an inability." She bit her bottom lip tentatively. It sounded as if she was justifying it to herself more so to him.

"And a bond to a human?"

"I am not sure."

"It is an indication to likely trauma. Being antisocial is typically a debilitating result. More specifically, there is a lack of conscience."

"You find me incapable of functioning in social situations? Or do you think I would be prone to murder?"

"Of course not. My perception of you is quite normal. You are not exceptional in any way."

Perhaps she took some form of comfort from it for she sat quietly for nearly fifteen minutes. Something in the way he watched her, the subtle movements of his facial features alarmed her. There was no hiding from him, that much was certain. It was clear to her, also, that she did not know how to handle him, let alone handle her current situation.

"Have you always felt a waning connection with others?"

"I have never felt that way. I never have felt empathetic towards people. I simply do not care."

"Do you feel at ease in social situations? Or do you find yourself unaware of how to interact?"

"I am quite capable of acting. I understand what is rude and what is not. I understand how to bring people joy and grasp the idea of how they might feel their joy. "

She maintained eye contact with him as if to further dissuade him from the line of questioning. Indeed Miss Rosen did not seem reckless nor impulsive to him. She followed authority very well, as her father made his authority a constant clear point. To his perception she was neither aggressive nor depressed. Detached, yes. Clearly she suffered from some degree of antisocial personality disorder; the cause was a curious factor, to him. If she was capable of empathy there was little harm, but perhaps she was capable of emotion without empathy. Though, he was uncertain if she was even self aware, perhaps her mind was in a constant state of illusion.

"Is killing wrong? Are you concerned I will think of you as a remorseless killer?"

"Often. But I do not feel I am capable of determining the cases that it is justified."

"Is it ever justifiable?"

She pursed her thin lips and turned her head down a moment as she contemplated, as if avoiding eye contact with her doctor now would prevent him from influencing her.

"For my learned sense of morality, to kill because of anger is inappropriate. The person should have behaved in a manner that caused them to no longer be of worth or benefit to society. A violent murder, perhaps, should not continue to live."

"Who might you consider unnecessary in society?"

"Technically speaking everyone dies. Perhaps, there are some, who merely are undeserving of their advantage." She spoke quietly while folding her hands in her lap as she carefully met his gaze.

"When did your mother pass away?"

"I was very young. I do not remember very well."

She noted how he stiffened. No doubt her father had misconstrued the picture of her mother for the sake of the doctor.

"Did you have a close relationship with her, according to your father?"

"I'm not sure even now he's realized she is dead. I was a nuisance to her; interrupted her relationship with my father. When she began to…turn wild…he took it with great difficulty."

"What do you mean to turn wild?"

"I believe she was schizophrenic. Father says she was simply stressed. She was prone to paranoia. I recall her covering all the windows over Christmas because she was frightened of God interrupting our meal. "

"She was frightened of God? Was your mother religious?"

"Yes, she was a strong believer and as such to have hallucinations of being cast out…it caused her to fear for her very soul. Before she killed herself she was prone to locking herself in the bathroom and painting on the walls with her own blood. She believed she could do magic with her blood, she sympathized with Jesus who was denied by the Jews."

"You remember the time very vividly."

"It was traumatic. I do not access those memories often, and would rather not do it again if avoidable. She has been dead many years, and her influence was minor. It is, after all, easy to forget her insanity when she is no longer present."

"Do you fear that you might become like her?"

Her eyebrows furrowed a bit as he noted her eyes meeting his yet again, staring firmly as he felt her watch him for facial expression.

"No. I merely do not have enough care left to give. Perhaps it is my own choosing."

Ileana observed Doctor Lecter glancing to his watch, carefully closing his notebook and setting it aside. He gazed back to her, his deep maroon eyes seeming to pierce whatever he found of her personality that was so interesting. He said nothing for quite some time, head tilting a bit. The small smirk did not go unnoticed.

"I do not see any reason for you to be the focus of psychotherapy. Though, it can be cathartic to express childhood traumas to another. I will not be taking you officially as a patient; however, I should like to meet with you every other week to assure there is no progression of illness. There is a chance your mother's insanity has tainted your own state."

"And what am I to tell my father?"

"I will handle the conversation."

The implication warmed her; he understood her lack of voice in her own household. Perhaps validation of her own capability might allow her freedom from her father's will. Of course, she did not acknowledge her ease at blind trust in Hannibal Lecter. Doubt was not something she often came across, something he was already very aware of.

She followed him out of the office, nodding in thanks when he held the door open for her.

Ileana responded well to authority; She did not seem to act out in any way that suggested violence. However, he couldn't help but find curiosity if she could be driven to it.

"It would serve you well, Miss Rosen, to consider the prospects of connecting with yourself first. Perhaps taking what you know of others and forming your own self of what traits you approve in them will allow you to progress away from such darkness."

* * *

"What about a green one? The color would go nicely with your eyes." Ferdinand seldom waited for Ileana to answer him. He handed her the emerald brocade dress, tutting a bit as if shoeing her away to the changing room.

Ileana never chose her own clothing. After all, if left with the choice she wasn't even sure what she would _like_ to wear. She wouldn't know really where to begin. She had admired a dress upon a blonde woman that had passed through the store and thought it might be nice upon her as well. Ileana responded to the other's assured walk, the fact that the blonde was alone.

But Ferdinand took great pride in assuring his daughter looked her best; it was akin to him looking his best. He admired the form of her ratios when she walked out in the brocade, clearly uncomfortable with the short length.

"I like this one. You look like a wonderful young lady. Any high class man would be happy to marry you." Ferdinand smiled lightly. "But maybe you should try on the rust one. It might go better with your eyes."

"What about a wine red?" She asked quietly. "Complimentary colors."

He scowled only briefly, handing her the one of his choosing, deep rusty satin that would drape across elegantly. "No, I think red would give the wrong idea. It is not prudent to wear red as it is far too sensual. You shouldn't doubt me."

He had said the same thing, in regards to doubting him, when she asked why Doctor Lecter invited them both over to dinner.

"It just seems unprofessional, or rather, inappropriate."

"He does not discuss your sessions with me. Merely says you are opening up. I see the changes already, dear one."

Ileana offered him a slight smile. She noticed the changes too.

She suddenly felt rather unhappy; not that she had ever felt happy before. But she knew she should be discontent with the way her relationships with others functioned. She had realized it when she could not bring herself to speak of her father to Doctor Lecter. Her indifference had waned for him and something very separate came to fill the space. Suddenly she found herself actually speaking to him, conferring that she would make small choices for herself. Typically her father would simply scoff and allow her about her choices. At least where the seemingly insignificant ones were concerned.

But with her changes he too began to change. Ferdinand relied heavily upon being the primary adjudicator of his daughter's life. Having her around him put him at ease; Control had been robbed from him when his wife took her own life and he felt the need to assure Ileana remained alive and successful. The first change in her came the day following her first session. She asked about her mother. Of course she was toneless when asking, but never before had she cared to ask.

_"Were you and mother in love?" _

_Ileana was fumbling with the ends of her skirt again, testing him as she often did for a response. He usually chided her for fidgeting. It was unbecoming of a submissive, educated girl. _

_"Of course. I loved her more than life itself." He paused a bit, catching her eyes. "Don't fiddle."_

_"More than me, father?" _

_She was ignoring him. A new thing. Usually she was perfectly behaved and listened to him without question. Ileana was respectful by nature. It seemed to him that she was again testing how he would answer. _

_"You are my daughter. Nothing could ever change my love for you. Your mother is gone, though. I cannot love a ghost." _

He watched her come out in the rust dress and instantly trusted his judgment. The green of her eyes stood out, her dark hair was enchanting. He was very proud of what his genetics had helped to create. Even as much as he cared for her mother, he was thankful she had gotten more of his looks than hers. It made it easier to forget his late wife.

"You look lovely, Ileana."

She eyed herself carefully in the mirror, her slender fingers dancing across the satin, watching it reflect the light against her skin. She found the orange tone made her seem ghostly; perhaps it was the darkness of her hair. Perhaps her hair was too long. She was uncertain.

"I do not feel lovely in this."

He was startled. She never labeled anything as a feeling. Part of her aversions.

"You should feel stunning."

"I don't really care for dresses, father. You know that." She asserted, her eyes meeting his in the mirror's reflection. She smirked slightly. "I'm sorry. If you like this one I will wear it, I didn't mean to make a fuss."

He chose her shoes carefully, sliding them on for her and buckling the strap.

It was a sinful woman that washed the feet of Jesus, and she could not help but to wonder if this was his own form of repentance. To care for her and dote upon her as a way of asking her mother for forgiveness.

She watched her father noting the shift in his behavior that came from her new found self-awareness. He had become more abrasive, watching her in public when they were out together and making certain to introduce her to everyone now, instead of allowing her the silent position in his life she had grown accustomed too. She realized how greatly he cared for her.

For the first time in her life she found herself disgusted by another human being.


	4. Desert Rose

"And when you felt this disgust how did you respond?"

"He is my father. I thought I was wrong to feel in such a manner. Admittedly…" she paused to look up at him over the edge of the lipstick stained wine glass, "-I thought it very improper of me to feel such for him."

"Speaking in concern-"

"Which you have for me?" She asked, a bit coyly. "I'm honored your curiosity is phrased in such a way tonight." Her wit had improved drastically from the time he first met her. He liked to credit it to self-actualization with his guidance, to his skill. The success of gaining her trust and comfort did bring him pride.

"I would be concerned that he had somehow harmed you. The mind is fragile, and often inhibits us from dwelling on trauma when incapable of processing it."

"I'm a bit hurt you would find my mind fragile…Is this your way of asking if Daddy's ever been more than just a father to me?"

He pursed his lips at the thought, as though seeing something revolting in another human truly irked his sense of refinement.

"You're being quite rude tonight, Miss Rosen."

She merely grinned at him, thin lips turning skyward in a gentle smirk that suggested she was dabbling in banter.

"I'm sorry, Doctor."

She frowned a bit, which warped her face in a manner that made her seem far younger than she appeared. There was a sincere disappointment that came with his words when she heard them. She seemed truly remorseful to cause him any offense. It was hard to believe he once thought her features cold. Though, admittedly, she was only this way around him. To his perception she constantly placed a cool veneer over her personality, or what had developed of it, for the sake of watching others.

Indeed even in their sessions she observed his face, his office. No doubt she had a good grasp on his presented mannerisms. It was always intriguing, the way her eyes took a particular light when she watched him privately, or when their eyes met at a social gathering. The part of her that approved of him took their discussions to be secretive, something sacred to her with meaning he could never know.

Ileana carefully pulled the flesh from her fork, teeth careful against the metal as she chewed with her eyes closed, admiring the wide body of flavor the liver.

"It is delightful, near bordering sin. Is the flavor from the fat?"

"Great care goes into the treatment of the goose before it is killed; their gullets are stuffed near to bursting to ensure the fat content is proper for gourmet dishes."

She took note of the smile upon his face; he certainly enjoyed richness in life, be it food or clothing.

"I have never had foie gras before."

"I find that surprising, I would have presumed your father assured you dined in the finest fashion."

"He insists upon not eating animal products. At least, not for me." Ileana took another thoughtful bite. "It is as if he grooms me to have an emaciated figure and yet my own genetics deny him that simple joy of control."

"You gain joy from the denial?"

"Naturally. Would you not be inclined to it if you were unaware of the way your body is truly perceived by others? It makes it harder to react properly in a crowd. More so if it is whom you trust that causes such a state?"

"He has no control over your perceptions."

"I am well aware, Doctor Lecter. But I was not, however, aware that this was therapy….or is it more like dancing between the lines of professionalism?"

"Are you suited to dancing?"

"I learned to dance while young, yes."

"Do you enjoy it?"

"It does not trouble me, no."

He nodded in agreement, settling for the decisively vague answer as he sipped his wine admiring how the flavor was enhanced by the faintest scent of cherry blossom.

"Perhaps I shall dance with you sometime."

"I have a question for you, Doctor Lecter."

He gave a nod, gesturing for her to ask at her leisure as he too savored the flavors of the dish he had created.

"Why invite him along with me for dinner?"

Hannibal grinned a bit. "It sounds as if you are jealous. Do you not wish to share with him the experience? That's surprisingly selfish of you."

"It is only natural. I am…concerned for the motivation, however. You do not seem the type to simply allow things to progress. You meddle, Doctor. And I worry how you intend to meddle in my own personal affairs."

He chewed thoughtfully a moment before taking a sip of the wine. She mimicked his behavior, the bridge of her nose scrunching a bit at the flavor.

"You will just have to trust me, Miss Rosen."

* * *

Ileana watched with quiet observance as he moved through the kitchen preparing their meal. She noted the fluidity of his hands; the good doctor had many domains and to examine this felt invasive. Perhaps he wanted her to see him in such a place, to show he could be typical when needed. False security.

It still unnerved Ileana to feel so bare before another human. To be made transparent by the flick of his eyes confused her constant worry over being too plain. She still was not certain why she fretted over how he perceived her. She was worth having her mind toyed with, that should have been evidence enough for her use to him. She first picked up on his attempts to trigger her in their second session. Clearly he had some goal in mind; he began to speak more quickly around her as of late. While he had paced in his office she was reminded of a stag preparing for rut, stamping its hoofs in the dirt awaiting a challenger for dominance. Idly, she hoped he might behave the same towards her father. It had crossed her mind that he was the other stag to be challenged.

"Will we dance tonight?" Her question was airily, left hanging while she sought patiently for his gaze.

Doctor Lecter looked up from the pan, meat sizzling in the oil as he covered it. Ileana's brow rose as she inhaled the scent of searing flesh. He noted the cut of the dark green dress, her hair was curled to cascade in dark ripples over a bar collar bone. It was as if she too was preparing for a performance; She did look lovely, seating in his kitchen and patiently watching his every move. A lesser man might have been uncomfortable from the stern gaze.

"Perhaps. If there is something you desire being coy does not suit you. It's cowardly."

Her lips pursed at the implication while he smirked. Even with her eyes narrowed and thin lips tucked further together she looked magnificent.

"It is shocking rude of you not to offer a lady wine." She remarked.

"Drinking can be an unsightly habit; I'd hate for you to disassociate due to lack of self-control over alcohol consumption." He doubted she had ever drunk herself into a stupor. "Are you quite warm? I can see your wrists shaking and your hair standing on end. Nervous for Daddy to visit? Maybe that's why you want the wine…loosen yourself up a bit before he arrives."

"Yes." Ileana agreed, vaguely.

"Does the dress make you uncomfortable? Do his choices make you feel cheap? It's only natural to cling with desperation to consistency in your life when you know where your father's decisions will lead you. Such moral fabrics certainly seem to his taste."

He knew the silence that followed intended to express her agreement. He had always seen Ferdinand as a cheap imitation of a man; Again she felt his eyes through her rather than simply upon the surface.

"Now, about that wine."

His smile made her shiver with eager delight.

* * *

Despite Ferdinand being fashionably late, Hannibal Lecter aired no grievances against him. At the moment he was a guest at his table. He also did not make mention of the odor of alcohol upon his breath, nor the hazy stupor caused from too many drinks at the gallery. The other man sipped his wine all the same, seemingly unaware of the good quality as he quickly emptied glass after glass.

"I purchased a new watercolor," Ferdinand began, "somewhere from Eastern Europe. I thought you might like to have it in your room, Ileana. "

She nodded in agreement, not looking up from the salad.

"You have very discerning tastes, Doctor Lecter. A well decorated home. Though, the art is a bit too…antiquated for my tastes. Maybe even grandiose."

ILecter grinned, eyes glimmering under the light from overhead. "You always compliment so generously, Ferdinand."

Ileana smiled as well; her father continued to speak as if unaware that neither cared to listen to his pointless observations. Yes, the salad was fresh. Of course Lecter had many paintings. She watched as her father examined the Leda painting hung over the fireplace. Lecter also noted the other man's gaze.

"Are you familiar with the myth? Interesting, that Leda and Zeus might produce Helen. Any woman that could start a war with the flash of a write should be tended to with a careful eye."

Ferdinand seemed startled when he realized Lecter had been speaking to him. Ferdinand Rosen did not interest Doctor Lecter. Some degree of Ferdinand's transparency allowed the light to cast horrid shadows upon him that might be painted as indignant. Ferdinand utilized his wealth to act out. Lecter had witnessed how friendly he was to the younger women; As if everyone in high society did not see through the garishly cheap suits into the truth of his selfish darkness. All he existed as was another brat concerned over thinking of himself highly. He did not think anyone was clever enough to see through his showmanship and realize his nature. Hannibal could smell moral deviance like his from meters away; such things left a tainted smell of old blood crusted upon the flesh.

"It seems odd…" Ferdinand mumbled, sipping upon his fourth glass of wine, "that a swan became Zues's vessel. A bull would be more

practical."

"Elegance speaks more for virility than a showy display of tromping hooves. Swans are loyal, will gladly cover their dead mate with their own bodies and die alongside. It is easy to overpower, but choosing to seduce rather than subjugate suggests higher intelligence then simply tossing about horns."

Ferdinand scowled for a moment when he noticed her Ileana grinned.

"Yes, I suppose so." He added, as if allowing the doctor to have the last word would have harmed him.

"Ileana mentioned you still have photos of your late wife in your top dresser."

"Did she?" Ferdinand did not meet Hannibal's prowling eyes.

"I can't help but find myself curious as to how similar they look."

"Ileana takes after me."

He answered almost too quickly.

"Though I do have mother's eyes, minus the madness." Ileana added.

"Don't correct me, Ileana. It's childish."

A thick silence weighed in the air. Ileana took a bite of the salad.

"Ferdinand, would you help me plate the main course? I'm afraid I do not have enough hands."

Lector was careful to select another bottle of wine from the pantry, passing it to Ferdinand on the way into the kitchen to better examine. He carefully centered the meat upon the plate, watching as Ferdinand read the label. Hannibal wondered idly how Ferdinand would handle serving his daughter meat.

"Oh, Doctor, I'm sorry. Ileana cannot eat meat." Ferdinand bristled upon noticing the cut of medium rare loin.

"How rude of me. I had no idea." It sounded believable enough. He carefully set down the pan in his hand.

"Might I speak with you frankly, Ferdinand? I am concerned that Ileana struggles with dependency issues. It not uncommon for women to deal with reliance upon their fathers when they have no noteworthy mother figure. Primarily, she seems drawn to masculine influence.

To my observance, she will act out without proper guidance. She seems to need an outlet to express her inability to make decisions; she pushes them onto others in any way possible. Apparently she prefers a firm hand, which is precisely what you have given her. She has been raised well yet I fear she may become _too_ dependent upon any male figure present in her life. I'm sure you recognize the dangers of such habits. You don't want your daughter in harm's way, I'm sure."

"How can you be so sure? I've never had to speak sternly with her. Not until she began seeing you…"

"Perhaps, we can test her. Nothing major, Ferdinand, just a simple dalliance in her mindset around the both of us. I assume her digestive system does not process animal products well?"

"That's correct-" Ferdinand's tone remained apprehensive.

"She knows she is to avoid meat."

"Yes. She knows well. She was hospitalized once from eating it when she was not supposed to."

"I shall serve it to her. If she accepts and says nothing it will show her dependence upon you to guard her, to command her. You must know I would not any harm to come her. It is important that I know how she sees you in her mind, if you are a father or a master."

He smiled as they returned into the dining area. Naturally Lecter was curious how much of a verbal altercation might escalate between the two. Ferdinand was a liar where his daughter was honest to a fault. Hannibal never had been particularly fond of liars and assumed Ferdinand would avoid being named one at any costs. Also, he wondered how hard Ileana would push back for the sake her newly forming independence. It might temporarily jeopardize her trust in him as her doctor, yet he thought it worthwhile. Ileana typically avoided confrontations with her father at all cost…indeed avoided him at great cost as well. To serve her up before him with such clear intent left considerably deeper waters than she expected. Bless her for being so unfailingly respectful.

Ferdinand was so concerned at the prospect of being caught in a lie he did not think that Ileana might find suspicion in him remaining mute to the doctor serving her meat. Hannibal himself looked too eager; she realized his game. The doctor set a plate before of her, leaning a bit closer than needed. The loin did look delectable, she regretting thinking she might not have the chance to finish it.

"Bon A' petite."

Ileana picked up her fork and knife, admiring the ease with which the meat separated from itself with the slightest of force from her fork. The sauce reflected beautifully under the lights, displaying a mastery of such culinary art that she found interesting for the Doctor to possess. Momentarily something passed over Lecter's gaze as she pulled the bite carefully between her lips. It gleamed brightly in the depths of the maroon, but she could not place the invasive meaning.

"Ileana! What on earth are you thinking!" Ferdinand's hip bumped the table as he reached over to pull the fork from her hand, setting it on the table forcefully. "You aren't supposed to eat that, spit it out."

His concern sounded misplaced to her as she swallowed, staring back it him boldly. "You are not supposed to lie to a host, either. It's incredibly rude. Would you have me lie to my psychiatrist as well? That is one lead I simply cannot bring myself to follow, Father."

For a moment, Ferdinand's gaze burned with a rage that left Lecter wondering if he might strike his daughter.

"You would speak to me like this? Doctor Lecter has been kind enough to invite both of us over and you behave so disrespectfully?"

"Furthermore," Ileana added upon second thought, "I do not appreciate being told what I should and should not eat. The watching of my waistline will-"

"Enough, Ileana. Now's not the time-"

"Then let's make it the time, shall we?" Ileana calmly stood, pulling on her shawl as she gave a sorrowful glance across the table to Doctor Lecter. "I'm afraid I'm not feeling well, I will have to miss desert. I hope you can forgive me."

She excused herself from the table. Ferdinand followed suit, spouting apologies over his daughter's behavior. He did seem embarrassed, but certainly for the worst reasons possible. Ferdinand knew now not to trust how much Ileana would tell the Doctor. The sinking knot within his gut (certainly not from too much alcohol) confirmed that he could not allow her to continue his therapy. The Doctor had to know, must have known for ages now.

"I'm so embarrassed. I'm incredibly sorry. I never expected this from her."

"Ferdinand, do drive carefully."

It is not until Hannibal is clearing away the half eaten plates that he notices Ileana has left her purse sitting against the leg of the table, as if a silent memento requesting his immediate attention. Ileana is not forgetful and always intentional with her belongings. He carefully picks up the purse, rifling through it mindfully. Nothing noteworthy until he sees the lightly scrawled note upon the back of her checkbook which lists her address.

"Let's dance tonight, Miss Rosen."

He takes his time gathering her things and his keys, pondering the possibilities of what he might discover when he walks into the Rosen Manor a half hour later.


	5. Gods and Monsters

She did not anticipate that Ferdinand would continue to drink when they returned home. The cursing and berating were to be expected. He took her disobedience as an insult, accusing her of having a loose tongue in regards to her doctor. She had never embarrassed him intentionally before and he simply could not cope with it that night. Some things he could not dismiss. The way she _looked_ at Hannibal Lecter raised bile in his throat.

He started to call her by her mother's name; it sounded pleading as he mumbled the words against her cheek. The side of her face already was forming a bruise from the force with which he pushed her face against the wall.

She remembered the way he used to tuck her in at night, before her mother had committed suicide. He would try to read to her, over the anguished cries of her mother, and act as if her mother simply was not there. He would assure her that no monsters were under the bed; though she did not ask if they were. After mother had died she realized they roamed about the streets as if they were normal people, as opposed to hiding in closets.

He would read old fables to her, she was not certain of their origin because even then she had not cared. Stories meant nothing to her; they were an assortment of words intended to comfort when really there was no solace in falsehoods and lies.

_"Once upon a time something happened. If it had not happened, it would not be told. There was once an emperor who had three daughters; the oldest was beautiful, the middle one more beautiful, but the youngest, Ileane, was so fair that even the sun stopped to gaze at her and admire her charms- It's where we chose your name, Ileana"_

_"I don't have any sisters." _

_"You might have, you never know. You might still." _

_Ileana had looked coldly at her father from across the bed. They both knew otherwise. _

_"One day the emperor received the news that his neighbor, a mighty monarch, was no longer friendly, but wanted to fight with him on account of a great imperial feud. He commanded his valiant soldiers to mount their horses, take their weapons, and prepare for the terrible battle which was to be fought._

_The emperor called his daughters, addressed a few fatherly, touching words to them, and gave each one a beautiful flower, a merry little bird, and a rosy-cheeked apple._

_"Whoever has her flower wither, her bird mope or her apple rot, I shall know has not kept her faith," said the wise emperor._

She remembered little of the story. The three neighboring sons tried to take advantage of the young women, but eventually, the youngest daughter nearly killed one of the sons, as she was clever beyond the wit of her older sisters. Ileane eventually married the youngest son, the one whom had tried to kill her for tricking his older brothers.

_"We should rejoice if our flowers had not withered, our apples not rotted…our birds not stopped singing." Ferdinand recited, his memory clear on the fable._

_"Father, would you test me in the same manner?"_

_He said nothing, the silence hanging between them. Her mother had issued a loud shriek, odd mutterings that echoed through the hallways. _

_"You should sleep." He chided. "I will tell your mother goodnight for you." _

_"Maybe it's better not to. She won't know the difference." _

_It had given her joy at the time to watch the way his eyes turned cold as he looked away from her._

"I don't like being this way, you make me do this. Why do you make me do this?"

She could taste the lie in his words, feel it seeping below her skin where he touched her. He had said such words times before. As he fumbled with the sipper on her dress he grunted, giving up and instead pushing up the hem of her dress while he forced his erection against the swell of her rump. She did not attempt to push him away this time, finding some sick humour in the way he fumbled with the zipper of his trousers as he pushed her shoulders harder against the wall.

His fingers were cold, his grip faltering with slight tremors. In his mind, this girl in front of him was not his daughter. He had never truly _had_ a daughter that was proper; no child had ever grabbed his hand when they crossed the street, nor any daughter that had brought home school projects or grades or even boyfriends later in life. She had been _him_ but most importantly the only part left of his wife, the only thing _she_ had bothered to leave in memory. He had loved his wife dearly, and her loss had left him vacant.

He tried not to linger on the guilt.

Ileana knew she could overpower him; he was clumsy when drunk. Her eyes closed as she felt his cold hand against her thigh, fingers indenting into the flesh with bruising force. She thought of the first time he had kissed her on the mouth when she was eleven. He had tasted awful that night with the way he forced her compliance, tried to guilt her with the price his love of her cost him. Ileana thought it ironic as he always collected extra payment upon the premise of how she _should_ love him. His hands had been rough, felt like sandpaper, scratching the pale skin of her developing breasts when she used to struggle to get away.

She succeeded once years ago; she ran and hid in the attic with the paintings he stored. The smell of old canvas and safflower oil had been nauseatingly strong. When he found her that night she remembered loosing herself in a painting based upon the Bernini sculpture of Hades kidnapping Persephone. Ileana wondered, at the time, who painted it- goodness it hurt when he grabbed the nape of her neck like a dog- and recognized that she wished to be Persephone, stolen away from the fake world of flowers her mother had left behind. Ileana wondered what color Hades eyes were.

Somehow she just knew his eyes would have been maroon and his mouth would have tasted of sugar. Just like the prince who tried to kill the youngest princes in her old bedtime story, the one whom danced so well around being tricked or killed. He had _loved_ her for such traits.

She remembered her father strapping the buckle of her shoes mere days before. He was drunk that night too, enough so he fought to keep an erection, same as he found himself again this night. He wobbled a bit, leaning back to catch the sway of his weight.

Ileana threw her elbow into the hollow above his stomach. While he was gasping for breath she went for his eyes, thumbs desperately trying to bore them out, feel them pop beneath the pads of her thumbs as she pushed him back onto her bed.

* * *

When Hannibal entered the home using his handkerchief to avoid leaving prints, the metallic tang of blood in the air wafted past him. He could hear heavy panting nearby. Perhaps he had anticipated seeing Ferdinand upon her; it was a clear picture in his mind the relationship he possessed over his daughter. He wondered how best to disembowel the man, which way might best serve his purpose of ending Ferdinand's life. He did not care for what occurred in the privacy of the Rosen household, however to leave such a well-prepared meal early was unforgivable under such circumstances.

Instead, Hannibal Lecter found himself pleasantly surprised. Ileana sat carefully at the top of the stairs (indeed he might not have noticed her if she had not shifted) lifting her hands from her lap to display the blood that dyed them. Despite her heavy breathing she seemed calm as he approached.

"You've made quite a mess." He tucked the kerchief back into his coat pocket as he stood upon the step below her.

"Did you bring my purse?" Her voice sounded hoarse as if she had been screaming.

"You aren't normally so forgetful."

She laughed at the irony. Hannibal helped her stand, a hand pressing against her back and the other careful upon her forearm. She led him to her room. He noted the familiar watercolor upon her wall, the smattering of blood beneath it seemed to make the color of the painting more clear. She appeared to have broken Ferdinand's nose. The swelling of her hands suggested she had banged him with the outside of her palms until he stopped breathing. The dress she wore to dinner earlier sat folded neatly upon the edge of the bed which the lifeless body of Ferdinand Rosen rested on. Hannibal found mild amusement in how unrecognizable the man's face had become.

"I didn't want to wear it anymore."

He looked over at lleana; her hazel eyes seemed greener with the smattering of blood upon her collarbone and chest. He noted she had nothing on, but did not allow his gaze to linger on her form despite the great desire to note every detail.

"Nor your undergarments?"

"He picked those out as well."

"You attacked him. You could have left after you forced him off of you, but instead you retaliated. You've murdered your father. See, this is why he should have been more careful about trying to fuck you while he was drunk. Drunken bulls are sloppy, I tried to warn him."

She smiled weakly in response.

"Tell me, when your father dropped you off at home tonight…did he seem upset?"

"He was too drunk to drive…said something about wanting to leave to Paris. After he left me at the house I did not see any more of him that night." She found it shocking how easy lying was. It was a believable story, as well.

Hannibal took a step closer, leaving them barely an inch part. The warmth of his body was felt within her bones. She knew he had wanted this, the validation that he could manipulate her father, and more keenly her. The maroon of his eyes seemed to pierce her in the darkness in multiple points of red. He tucked away behind her ear a stray strand of hair.

She did not shy away from being exposed, suddenly feeling free. Hannibal leaned forward and pressed his lips carefully to her temple much as a brother might his young sister.

"Well…shall we get to work, Ileana?"

It struck her that this was the first time he had said her name.

"Did he harm you?"

Hannibal pulled his coat off, draping it upon the edge of the bed a bit mournfully as he rolled up his sleeves. He sat upon his coat, a firm hand upon her hip pulling her closer. His fingertips grazed across her skin, his tongue clicking behind white teeth when he saw the bruising upon her thigh.

"I think his nails might have cut me."

Hannibal looked up at her, hands tracing the outline of her ribs (close to the surface, indicating starvation and being underfed) before skimming beneath the small swell of her breasts. Despite malnourishment she had the bone structure suited for an hourglass. He noted her wincing to his touch. She was handling it quite well; he did not put it out of her capacity to turn to violence without prompting. Victims of sexual assault could be quite unpredictable.

"He fractured your rib. Are you having any trouble breathing?"

"A little."

"Does your father ever have company come calling?"

"Why?"

Hannibal smiled, offering her a wink. "We have some rearranging to do on his behalf. We might need to part him out like that terrible old car parked out front."

Ileana turned her head slightly, watching as he continued to thoughtfully explore the expanse of her pale skin. She watched his tongue run quickly across his top lip before he caught himself and again closed his mouth.

Hours later he found himself up to his elbows in Ferdinand's entrails, noting how diseased his liver was; no doubt shriveled like an olive at the bottom of month old beer.

"And we do what with the…parts?" Her voice grew strangely quiet.

Ileana sat upon the kitchen counter, legs spread apart as she swung her feet in circles. When he attempted to have her remove the clothing from Ferdinand she broke down into a fit of hysterical laughter at the irony of her undressing him. Hannibal knew at that moment she would not be of much use. In the interest of time he took to removing organs. Already Hannibal found he was giddy at the thought of a well-fed Ileana savoring the taste of her father's brain. It was only proper to mourn his loss, after all.

"Dispose of them."

She hadn't bothered to clean the blood off of herself. He wondered if she found the display of him tearing apart her father erotic. She would have a host of intimacy issues to follow and he already had begun to imagine how best to aid her in conquering them. Perhaps she enjoyed seeing the man whom had caused much turmoil in her life quartered and cut open.

"Do you think he…would have harmed me? I'm surprised you came."

"You asked for a dance, surely you must have known I'd come. I told you I appreciate forwardness and it seemed appropriate to reward you."

Ileana felt her cheeks burn a bit, her pride wounded that she had been even more obvious than she anticipated. She tucked her legs up beneath her body as she pressed her back against the cabinets, closing her eyes but still hearing the sound of Ferdinand's cries as his nose had broken beneath her bare hands.

_She felt powerful. _

* * *

Notes:

The Romanian folktale, "Cunning Ileane" may be found here:

European_folktales/Romanian_folktale_


	6. Shot at the Night

"And what was your intent in leaving your purse?"

Alana and Ileana shared a common gaze for a few moments.

"I had delusions of him prancing in to save me. I imagined him a brilliant knight, pulling Ferdinand off of me to defend my honor."

"You don't think he would have?"

"No, I believe he intended to see how far my father would have been driven." She thought another moment before continuing. "Perhaps he thought my father might kill me for revealing what he had done."

"But you never told Doctor Lecter about the abuse."

Ileana smiled curtly to Alana, almost admiring her way of phrasing things with such caution.

"You and I both know it's not the sort of thing that's particularly hard to spot. Especially combining Ferdinand's behavior with mine. It was quite apparent.'

"Perhaps he might have killed your father instead. That seems a likely intent given his…habits." Alana added, quietly.

"Miss Bloom, you know Hannibal much in the same regard I do. You have eaten at his table, conversed with him. He would have no appreciation for weakness nor dependence. Indeed his actions were to draw me away from situational dependence. It's….rude to expect such a thing from another human."

Alana noted how Ileana seemed at ease when speaking of her father's untimely end. She was very nearly passive with her actions; Alana doubted that Ileana had ever questioned the morality of her killing.

"Your lack of emotions did stem from abuse. Its normal to hold some degree of fear following sexual assault."

"I was never afraid of him; At least not since I was very young. What other mechanism could my poor mind possibly use to cope? You council victims, is it really typical?"

"To some degree. Some suffer a lackluster emotional range more keenly than others….It must have been startling."

"It was all new. It felt similar to the first time I ate meat. Dangerous and yet…cleansing. I was washed of my father's trespass. Though, I'm not certain I felt things normally after; I doubt I ever will."

Ileana watched Alana, noting the calmness she tried to place as if pretending along that her murdering Ferdinand was justified. She also could not help but wonder how curious Alana was to know Ileana's psychosis better; It was not often that people close to Hannibal (or as close as any being could be to Lecter) made it free from harm. She recalled that Ms. Bloom was a lecturer and Ileana wondered if she might be the subject of any forthcoming lectures. Even the thought sounded arrogant of her.

"Did you feel the need to kill before?"

Ileana raised a brow. "Do you doubt my motive? I suppose it could have been a well-placed cover. I'm certainly not the typical range of your study, unfortunately."

Alana stiffened a bit, finding herself quite aversive to causing Ileana any discomfort. "I'm only trying to assist. After all, you did respond to my request for questioning you. You can leave at any time-"

"You weren't trained to council, but you do it anyhow. With or without realizing it." Ileana asserted. "Maybe I'm not the only victim in the room."


	7. Bones

Hannibal carefully shook Ileana awake. The kitchen had been cleaned of blood save for the imprints that her hands had left upon the counter top. The cuts had been carefully stored away for later use; Hannibal was already planning which wine to pair with their next shared dinner.

"Surely you can't sleep so well in the blood of another? Do you feel no guilt at all?" Hannibal did not grin at his own joke.

"I hope to sleep much better now. No unslightly midnight awakenings to being fondled." She scowled a bit at the thought as she moved stiffly off of the counter. "I'm a bit of a mess, aren't I?"

"Indeed. It does not suit you. Shall we fix that?"

She walked with him to the bathroom, watching with interest as he turned the faucets and drew a bath. She wondered how old he was, if he had ever cared for another and ran them baths. Then again Hannibal seemed well practiced with most anything; an expert, really.

She was well aware of this ploy to solidify her trust in him (at least she assumed). For as perceptive as he was, he should have known already that she had infinite faith in him to behave simply however he was going to. She held no expectations from him; she could never cause him such disrespect as to think she could accurately predict the workings of his mind. Ileana wondered how many people he had butchered in the same way, how he chose them and why she was still alive. It should have bothered her and yet it did not.

He offered Ileana his hand, helping to lower her into the water. She wondered when he changed clothes; his hair smelled of her father's hair products and somehow he managed to make it smell appealing. No doubt he had much finer scents within his own bathroom then what her father could offer. It seemed odd, to behave in this way with one another. Such content was best suited to surrealist paintings as opposed to reality. She remembered when she was a small child, how her mother had torn the comb through her hair muttering about filthy sinful children; her father had sat in the same sort of silence.

Perhaps he noticed the harsh lines upon her forehead as she frowned.

"I'm not particularly fond of baths." He explained to the air, hand searching for hers beneath the knew it was a mimicked gesture; she could tell from the touch that he did not care to comfort her; however elegant and chivalrous it was all performance.

He took his time rubbing the blood from her body as if wiping clean the memory of Ferdinand upon her, intentionally avoiding her legs and hips. She wondered if this were another test of her. It seemed he never stopped testing others for reactions, pushing boundaries. As he splashed water across her shoulders she grabbed the top of his larger hand with her own, halting him.

"I assumed you would be more thorough. You've missed a few spots."

Ileana sounded assured, confident with her words. His expression remained professionally curious.

"You are being coy again, Miss Rosen. What a naughty habit to-"

For the second time that night Hannibal was surprised. She pulled him forward by the wrist, forcing his hand beneath the water to linger against the inside of her thigh. He could feel the smooth skin of her labia with the back of his hand. Again she stared straight at him, clearly unafraid of making eye contact. Such boldness was striking for her, almost unsettling the variance her behaviors seemed to run. The trait of a spoiled child to make such brazen demands.

"How childish to demand such a thing. Your father certainly never taught you any decency, did he?"

Ileana nodded a bit; He had not struck her as the type to participate in such things. She wondered how unhealthy it would be for her mind, fresh with trauma, to be laid with more.

"Tell me, Doctor Lecter, are you any good with physical therapy? I have this terrible…_hollow_ ache within me."

Before she could pride herself with more clever jokes (that he was no doubt unimpressed by) he had pulled her up from the bathtub, blood-tinted water dripping off of her in rivulets as he tugged her along with him to her bed. Her wet hair left droplets trailing behind them upon the wooden floors. Even in the darkness of her room she could see the deep crimson of his eyes. She attempted to press her body into his, however was halted when the back of her knees came into contact with the back of the bed.

"Your father must have kept you shaven to remind him of your younger body; explains why he would limit food intake as well. Filthy man. Are you certain you can follow my lead?"

Again, the dancing analogy warmed her.

"It is important that you explain _why_ you feel it necessary to make sexual advances to another being. Perhaps replacing your father with another male figure is not wise at the current time, you must know this surely you aren't that rash with decisiveness."

"The reason doesn't matter. I'm trying to _cope_ with the crushing loneliness I'm sure to feel. Vulnerability has a strange taste to it, I think. I'm not certain I enjoy it and would rather be done with the whole ordeal."

"Ileana, you will answer me. You are handling things well, nearly too well. As your psychiatrist-"

"Yes, Hannibal."

He was not overly fond of being interrupted, but this was the first instance she had ever said his first name. There was a ring to the intonation she used, the slight muttering of syllables in her mouth as he felt her gazing up at him. Thankfully, he did not shiver with delight as he so desperately wanted to. He pushed her back onto the bed where hours before her father had lain. A question danced across his lips however he did not speak it to her; silence was a strange garment upon him.

Hannibal took his time removing his clothes, folding and setting them upon the dresser where her bloody green dress had once been. She wondered idly if he threw it away; his lips pressed to her ankle, the juncture of her thigh, upon her sternum as he slowly covered over her, propped upon his arms. He was in no rush, curious how far she might let things progress, what limits she might draw for him, which areas of her body were the most sensitive to_**his **_touch. The event felt strangely staged, though it did not concern her. After all, dances must be perfected through practice.

He kissed chastely along her collar, across her level pulse before resting upon her cheek. The salt of her tears intrigued him. Hannibal allowed his hands to glide across her waist, rise to grasp the swell of one breast within, kneading it carefully. Ileana's back arched to the touch when he took her hardened nipple between two fingers and pinched.

"Look at me, Miss Rosen."

Her head turned and their eyes met yet again in the darkness, far closer than they ever had been with the lights upon them. She was wondering if he would ever take her across his kitchen counter or perhaps the desk in his office. Surely such thoughts were abnormal, also remnants of damage attained in her youth. She wondered if she was intended to feel trivial, if perhaps that is the way women were designed.

"Yes, Doctor Lecter?"

"Describe what you are feeling in this moment."

His knees shifted to part her legs, knocking them further apart as his weight teetered above hers. He abandoned the ministrations upon her breast to carefully lift her by the underside of her hip, scooting her further up the bed to better allow angle upon her. Her thighs were covered in goose bumps.

"Focus, Ileana. What are you feeling."

"Everything." She muttered frankly, her eyes searching upwards into the darkness admiring for just a moment how he seemed one within it. Another being entirely separate from her. She found it fascinating.

He did not ask her if she was certain before he thrust into her; she was no longer delicate nor fragile. She had lost such trappings the moment she took another's life. He wondered if she could be driven to it again, or if she now would become boring. After all he only preferred the finest in life, and perhaps murder would ruin her finesse. She certainly lacked technique and no doubt would become slightly unhinged after such a night. He was less interested in any sexual gratification (after all it served little purpose on the grander scale) but to observe her during provided unique opportunity to better tailor his approach to manipulating her. Perhaps now she might pose a greater challenge.

He noted the arch of her back when her legs wrapped about him; her temperature ran colder than normal, which he marked as a potential symptom. The harsh line of her collarbones while her head was tossed back seemed natural, as if she were intended to be viewed in this manner, thrown with intimate ecstasy. Hannibal gripped tighter to her ribs, curious how much force would be needed to break them, to break her within his grasp. Ileana's breathing increased pace as, her fingers digging into the sheets.

"Look at me, Ileana."

She took a moment before looking up to meet his gaze, eyes hazy and unfocused. Ileana debated a moment before reaching up to carefully brush aside a few flyaway hairs from his face; She noted how despite being thorough and exerting himself physically that he seemed separate from her even still. It was so incredibly _difficult_ to care in that moment with the pleasure he offered her. He did not shy from her touch, nor seem as if it greatly bothered him, a small gesture that granted her slight peace of mind. The curve of his lips pursed a bit, the veneer of his persona sliding a bit as his pace increased, grip tightening to encourage her meeting of his deep thrusts. It overcame her, the desire to be fully consumed by him; to be devoured under his gaze and to be possessed by him.

It shocked her when he leaned down to press his lips roughly against hers; her teeth found his bottom lip and bit, to which he responded by biting her harder, enough to hurt. The whine that came from her did not register as her voice, her pleading and murmuring. The way he filled her and held to her so tightly mirrored an intimate moment in a way she could not have imagined. Such vulnerability seemed to encourage him, as much as she knew he could be encouraged. The huffing of his hot breath upon her neck, his nose within her hair, body pressed tightly against hers brought her to climax. Ileana's body shuddered beneath him causing him to smile pridefully. Her hips raised to meet the bruising of his pace. He continued to rock against her, finding his own orgasm shortly after hers.

"Miss Rosen," He spoke in hushed panting, his hand moving up to brush aside the ebony locks from her face, "you look good enough to eat."


End file.
